


Dazzled By Dragons

by Aelys_Althea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Career Paths, Charlie Weasley's Story, Dragons, Family, Gen, Growing Up, Inspiration, Other, Pre-Canon, What Could Have Been, romania - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-04 07:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12766041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: Charlie hadn't wanted anything. He never considered there would be something more - more than family, than school, that Britain and the life of a Weasley within it boundaries.That was until the dragons.





	1. Inspiration

Inspiration could arise from the most unexpected of situations, at the most unexpected of times.

"A light-bulb moment," Arthur Weasley would say as he proudly hefted aloft that very Muggle invention in reverential fingers. Where he'd even acquired it, none of the Weasley's quite knew; he often returned home with strange artefacts.

'Gifts' Arthur called them. Gifts, his wife would say, that were more for himself than their extensive family. "You could bring home something _useful_ for a change, Arthur."

"Useful? Molly, dear, what's not useful about _this_?" Arthur would reply as he clutched fistfuls of Muggle gadgets to his chest with protective indignation; calculators, clusters of cassette tapes, something Arthur had enthusiastically called a 'slushie maker'.

"Slushies, Arthur?" Molly would scold. "Why would we possibly need that?"

Arthur never had much of a reply, but he wasn't deterred. He never stopped bringing home the Muggle artefacts that his children had accepted for the redundancies they were.

It was upon one such haul that Charlie Weasley found his inspiration.

"I'm home!" his dad called as soon as he stepped through the doorway.

Movement roiled through the house, for every child knew what his entrance meant. Dad was home. Home after a long, long day at work, and he was late. They all knew what that meant.

"Presents!" Fred and George hissed in synchrony, scrambling towards the front door. "Dad's stupid presents!"

From the kitchen, Percy sighed and dutifully made his way into the living room. Ron toddled after Charlie's mum as she followed in Percy's wake, Ginny propped on her hip and pouting sleepily. Charlie and Bill rose from the dining table and followed a step behind.

Arthur Weasley was a sight of enthusiasm and smiles, red cheeks and hat crooked atop his head. In a flutter of robes, he swept through the living room with outcried welcome.

"Boys, I hope you haven't been naughty today," he said to the twins, and they giggled in a delighted guilt. Arthur hugged them nonetheless, then reached a hand to pat at Ron's short tuft of hair. "Ron, did you sleep in for Mum this morning? And Percy, I hope you helped with dinner tonight as you promised."

"I'm always the one who helps," Percy grumbled.

Arthur beamed. "Good boy," he said. Then he turned to Bill and Charlie. Not a word but a smile was spared because they were the oldest and didn't need more. As big kids, hugs weren't necessary, even if Charlie still liked them.

Such was always the way; Arthur would return home, would greet his family, would offer a word, a smile, a hug. And then he would bequeath his gifts. Predictably, after a kiss spared to Molly and Ginny both, he upturned his pockets.

The wonders of the Muggle world spilled forth.

The twins were on the pile in an instant. Ron, never to be outdone, toddled into the mess after them. Percy sighed his typical sigh before squatting on his haunches and beginning to sift through the pilfered goods.

For no other reason that to maintain that satisfied smile upon his dad's face, Charlie dropped to his knees beside Bill and began his own rifling. Screws and wires, gadgets and toys of variable shapes, sizes, and questionable anatomy; Charlie didn't really want any of it, but he looked nonetheless. Wondrous but… redundant.

There was a Walkman – Charlie knew his dad liked them. More cassettes. Something else that looked like a grey brick with numbers upon its front. "He finally got a phone," Bill whispered as he bent and awkwardly hefted the brick.

A pop-up Muggle book.

Something that looked like a hose.

A pair of knitting needles that clearly didn't knit themselves as Charlie's mum's did.

And beneath a thin sheet of plastic…

"How did they get in there?" Arthur exclaimed, gesturing to where Charlie peered. "You can throw them out, Charlie. They're not very interesting. There's dozens of the little toys at work; it's a new trend, I think, though Merlin only knows why."

Charlie didn't think they 'weren't interesting'. He thought they were by far the most interesting things in the pile. He stared, enraptured, at what appeared to be a pair of dragons – tiny, animated, with triangular heads and glowing eyes – rolling over one another in a tussle. Jaws snapped, frills flared, wings flapping as they roiled in endless struggle.

They definitely weren't Muggle. Barely as large as Charlie's hand, he'd never seen an actual, proportionate dragon model before. Only pictures, and those pictures… they were nothing on the real thing.

These models might have been real dragons themselves.

Charlie scooped them gently and they barely seemed to notice in the throughs of their battle. Just as Charlie barely noticed when his dad repeated, "Just throw them out, Charlie. They're probably defective anyway if they won't stop fighting, the silly things."

Charlie had never felt less like throwing something out in his life.

"That's cool," Bill said nonchalantly as he studied an unremarkable paperweight.

Charlie nodded. The dragons _were_ cool. Really, _really_ cool.

Muggles were interesting, Charlie had been taught. They were wondrously intelligent for non-magical beings. Charlie could nearly understand where his dad's fascination came from.

But dragons…

Cradling the pair of wrestling models in his hands, Charlie found himself smiling. In his opinion, some things were way, _way_ better.

At nine years old, Charlie was inspired before he even knew it.


	2. Edging Forth

The international portkey terminal, or IPT to the regulars, was something resembling Pitt Street of a morning. A deceptively large building, the structure itself was nothing if not unremarkable. Plain grey walls, plain sliding doors, and plainly minimalist windows that afforded barely a glimpse of the offices inside. Even the steps up to the entrance were wide, flat, unremarkable but for the fact that they saw the underside of more shoed feet than the sidewalk alongside it. Impossibly more, even.

Charlie had never seen a more terrifying gateway into the future in his life.

"Are you ready?"

For a moment, lost in his staring, Charlie had forgotten that he wasn't alone. Solitude was something unattainable outside the building – there were so many people that he felt in the midst of a school of swimming fish – but he wasn't _alone_. With a struggle, Charlie dragged his gaze away from his future.

Bill stood at his side. Staring at him, Charlie hardly seemed to see the fish that darted past either side of them – not even when a woman, head down and frown affixed, bumped into his shoulder. Tall, casually handsome, unerringly struck with the resting expression of quiet thoughtfulness, Bill was everything that Charlie wasn't. Everything he'd never believed he could be, and everything he'd stopped trying to become years ago.

Bill was his best friend, but more than that, he was his brother. Family meant everything to a Weasley. Everything. Which was a part of what made Charlie's future so terrifying. Leaving, breaking free and starting anew – Weasleys didn't do that. Charlie's Great-Uncle Martin had told him just that on frequent occasions.

Charlie most likely shouldn't be even contemplating stepping into the future behind those IPT doors, which was why Bill was so important. Friend, brother, and yet more than that. Charlie needed him for that moment and…

And he wouldn't have wanted anyone else at his side.

"Of course," he replied to Bill's words.

"Are you nervous?"

"I'm fine."

Bill smiled. Just slightly, and it was a knowing smile that Charlie had seen far too many times to find incomprehensible. "Charlie, you're allowed to admit it's scary."

Huffing in what was admittedly a nervous laugh, Charlie dropped his chin, gaze falling to his boots. He was prepared: the boots for the trek through the wilderness he'd be undertaking that afternoon, the thick slacks, the puffy jacket. The pack he had slung across his shoulders was a surprisingly heavy weight considering the Lightening Charm he'd bequeathed it with.

Charlie had all of the essentials; his wand, passport, working visa, certificate of acceptance with his new supervisor. He was as prepared as he could be – except he wasn't sure if he'd ever be ready. The urge to stop, to turn and return to _family, familiar, consistency,_ to _avoid, stop, turn aside from the impossible future_ , was an almost compulsive urge.

"Alright, then," Charlie muttered, voice nearly lost to the jumble of humming cars, pedestrian footsteps, and surrounding murmurs of conversation. "I'm actually shitting myself."

Bill chuckled. With a fond hand, he clapped Charlie on the shoulder before hooking his arm around his neck in a half-embrace. "Of course you are."

"What if it all goes wrong?"

Bill jostled him slightly. "It won't."

"What if I've made an really stupid, terrible mistake? Leaving home and Mum and Dad and –"

"You haven't."

"Hamstrong might have recommended me, but what if I don't live up to his expectations?" Charlie raised a hand to his face and scrubbed in a failing attempt to alleviate his rising distress. Bill was right in thinking him nervous. He was bloody terrified. "What if I'm actually really shit at it, and it all falls through and –"

_"Charlie."_

Bill's tone was final. He spoke like that sometimes. He was only two years older than Charlie, and yet he wore the weight of composure and maturity like Charlie had never been able to. It was his place, after all. The older brother: mature, level-headed, and decisive. Many considered Charlie himself to be mature, to be collected and level-headed and never, _ever_ one to cause a scene. That such was who _he_ was, too. To think that Charlie Weasley would break down, would 'freak out', would go so far as to turn tail and give up on an opportunity presented, was about as unbelievable as considering the twins capable of going a day without exploding something.

"Our little rock," Charlie's father would always say with a fond smile. "Steady as a rock."

"You've always been set in your decisions, Charlie," his mother would say with a slightly exasperated sigh. "Always quietly decisive and set in your ways. It would take heaven and earth to move you when you didn't want to be moved."

That was his place in the family. Second son, the quiet rock, steadfast and decisive to compliment Bill's maturity. Charlie had often considered he didn't quite fit that mould.

Or not all of it, anyway. He wasn't 'steady'; he just pretended to be. He might have been stubborn, clinging to his decisions when they were made, but that didn't mean he didn't question them every step of the way. Where his parents had dredged up such belief in him he wasn't sure.

But then, places and expectations had been obligingly allocated and obligingly accepted in the Weasley family.

Bill was one of the few people who understood otherwise. He knew Charlie wasn't always strong, or composed, or 'steady', even when he pretended he was. Around Bill, Charlie could breathe just a little easier. Even more so when Bill used _that_ voice.

That single word, that 'Charlie', spoke volumes. It said that it really was alright. It said that Charlie was justified in being scared and questioning himself, and that it would be more surprising if he didn't second-guess himself like every other human being would. It said that he was also stupid for that questioning, because –

"Hamstrong's didn't have to ask you to go," Bill said. "He was under no obligation to extend the invitation, so he must have seen something in you that was damn-well good enough. And Charlie?" A pause, then, " _Charlie_?"

With a struggle, Charlie drew his gaze from where he'd been staring at the portkey terminal once more. Staring and second guessing, because his decision wasn't _final_ and his role in the family didn't mean he couldn't question himself _before_ all was said and done. Bill's expression had fallen into one of solemn intent, eyebrows slightly raised and eyes widened. Charlie swallowed thickly. "What?"

"If it doesn't work out, then that's fine. You know you'll always have us to come back to. But it will." Another jostling squeeze rocked Charlie's shoulders. "Because you want it to, right?"

Charlie nodded shortly. "Right."

"You're not passing up this opportunity."

"R-right."

"Just think of it, Charlie. It's going to be awesome."

"It… will be."

" _Dragons_ , Charlie," Bill said. Then he grinned.

Charlie couldn't help but smile back. An upwelling of his nervousness but definitely excitement too tore through him and he couldn't have suppressed it had he wanted to. It was still unbelievable that the Dragon Research Professor Hamstrong had decided to visit his old correspondent Hagrid barely a year before. That he'd seen something in Charlie that even _Charlie_ hadn't perceived, something that was more than just 'Weasley' – but it was true. It had happened.

Charlie had wanted to study dragons for as long as he could remember. He might not have fully understood that want for what it was, but it was the truth.

"I'm still shitting myself," Charlie said through his widening smile.

"Of course you are," Bill teased. "That's why I'm here. So I can kick you up those stairs when you make a break for it like the chicken no one realises you are."

Charlie laughed quietly. There was that, too. With Charlie's father at work and his mother looking after the younger kids, Bill was the only one who _could_ come. To the Weasleys, family was important, was everything, but… sometimes necessities demanded absences.

That, and the fact that Charlie knew his mother was vehemently against him leaving. Charlie half wondered if she'd chosen not to come and see him off; he wouldn't have blame her. But Bill – he probably should have been at work too, but…

"Like hell I'm not going to see you off," Bill had said with a scuffle of Charlie's hair days before. Those words, that fond touch that so resembled those from their childhood, meant more to Charlie than he could ever explain.

At Bill's teasing words on the curb that morning, words likely as much to quell Charlie's 'chicken' as for actual threat, he smirked with more confidence than he felt. "You wouldn't be able to catch me if I ran."

"You want to bet?"

"You're piss-poor, Bill. You don't have anything to bet."

"So are you, though."

"I don't need money. _I'm_ the one who's going to study dragons."

Bill grinned as, almost expectedly, he went forth and scuffed Charlie's head. There wasn't all that much difference in their heights, but Bill made the most of what existed. "Damn right you are," he said when he finally dropped his arm back to his side. "Dragons and dragon keepers and other piss-poor grad-students like yourself. You'll hardly get a chance to miss home. So get a move on, why don't you?"

Charlie smiled at his big brother. Big brother, best friend, and the last Charlie would see of his family for he didn't even know how long. It would be strange to leave indefinitely, but even stranger to leave Bill behind. Charlie longed for the dragons of Romania and could think of nothing he'd rather pursue; he just wished Bill could come with him.

But he nodded his acceptance. He bit down upon the instinctive tightening in his gut, the churning discomfort of stark terror for the new, and he took a step towards the IPT. And paused. Only for a second, though. Only long enough for Bill to nudge him on the shoulder and urge him forwards once more.

Charlie climbed the stairs, and it was only with a glance over his shoulder that he paused a final time. Bill was smiling in the midst of the swimming school of pedestrians that flowed around him. He waved to where Charlie stood just before the doors. Then Charlie turned once more, took a deep breath, and stepped into his future.

* * *

The Romanian Dragon Reservation and Research Centre was hidden in plain sight. Or at least it was for any Wizarding eyes.

What a Muggle saw any could guess. Perhaps the surrounding countryside, the rolling mountains of rich greenery and peppered forestry, extended over and through where it should have been. Perhaps it was a collection of abandoned building gaping towards empty pens with decrepit fences that deterred the curious wander with haunted hollowness.

Charlie didn't know. Maybe his father would have cared, but he didn't. Besides, Muggles weren't nearly as interesting as the dragons they couldn't see.

The reservation was… it was a wonder. Charlie was nervous – Bill had that right – and he wasn't sure if he was good enough for Professor Hamstrong's investment, but his mother had been a little right too with her frequent and exasperated sighs. He was damn stubborn, too. Stubborn when his mind was decided, and the moment the tug of the portkey had flung him in an international lob, there was no turning back. That stubbornness was what drew Charlie from the Romanian IPT that was little more than an isolated kiosk in the middle of nowhere, and towards the reservation themselves.

The first thing he saw was most likely what every Muggles saw too: rolling hills and mountains, spreading greenery, clustered timber groves that could have hidden anything in and behind them. The snaking road that led through those hills was all but empty as Charlie strode along it, following the direction of his pointing wand. No guide had been offered to him. Hamstrong had jokingly proclaimed it a 'test of merit' that future employees find their own way to the reservation.

He wasn't wrong on that count. It was quite a walk given that Charlie had never trusted himself with Apparation in unfamiliar territory; a failed first exam had somewhat scarred him from the experience. He wondered how many other potential students and employees had shied away from a future amongst dragons for the convenient difficulty.

Not Charlie, though. If anything, that difficulty and the misgivings invoked as he strode down the empty dirt road was greater encouragement. It would be hard, but he would do it. He _would_. There was no giving up now. No turning back.

What came next, chasing behind the starkness and emptiness and Muggle friendly countryside, wasn't a sight at all. Not a _sight_ of the reservation but a sound. Or a number of sounds. The extensive grove Charlie followed his pointing wand into was flooded with a hush broken only by the twitter of birds – until it erupted.

A roar. A blood-curdling, deafening roar.

It was distant, but the very air still seemed to thrum with its resonance. Charlie paused in step and he felt his breath catch. A dragon. A real, actual dragon, somewhere in the grove ahead of him. His hand tightened on his wand, on the strap of his pack, as he peered wide-eyed into trees. His eyes darted amidst the emptiness, the absence of reptilian beasts, searching. And then –

Another roar. A different dragon this time, Charlie could discern. A deeper pitch.

Then another.

And another.

A thrill rippled through him. Thrill, and something far more complicated. In the part of his mind that wasn't caught with breathlessness and hungry longing, Charlie's mind leapt upon every scrap of knowledge he had about the creatures. He flipped through mental parchments and grazed over sketched depictions, flicking through every audio impression that he'd managed to get his hands on since he'd between he was going to study dragons.

 _An Antipodean Opaleye,_ his mind provided, conjuring the image of iridescent scales and long, languid limbs. _If I'm not mistaken, then that's…_

Charlie was running before he realised it. Making a break for the sound, towards the continuing roaring that would have drowned out any chirping of the birds had they continued to squawk, Charlie pelted through the grove. He felt more than heard his feet crunching over the bed of fallen twigs and leaves, dodging around trees. Each step, each roar, and his mind was leaping in a flurry of renewed excitement.

 _That's another Opaleye_ , he thought on the tail of another echoing roar _. A female, which would make sense if they're getting territorial with the summer. And that – that's a male. But that one… that has to be a Romanian Longhorn_.

Charlie's feet speed increasingly fast as the sketched depiction of the green and golden-horned Romanian dragon sprung to mind. The cry was different to the Opaleye's. Deeper. Broader, more chesty. Just the sound of it spread before Charlie a sea of possibilities.

He would learn this. The dragons, their sounds - he would learn them as more than just audio recordings for an vaguely known source. Charlie would do his utmost to commit the very tone of each individual to memory. If there was anything he'd inherited from his parents it was resilience, and it didn't matter that he retreated from his family as he had. Some things couldn't be shaken by distance.

Charlie's flying pace took him through the grove like a rolling boulder. Ducking around trees, leaping a fallen log, he followed the direction of his pointing wand. It was only when he stepped through the Muggle-repelling barrier, the touch of magic rippling over his skin like a gossamer curtain, that he ground to a halt.

The reservation spread before him.

Trees had been cleared from the vast expanse of mountainside, so wide the opposite end was barely discernible. In their place, barely half a dozen towering structures coiled as though grown from the very ground. Sharp and pointed, interconnected by dirt paths that looked more happenstance than deliberately scored, they seemed nothing if not a circulating arrangement of outposts. Sentinels, even, and presiding over the spread of wonder between their gazes.

Charlie barely saw those sentinels. As the towers' windows peered upon the openness between them, so too was his gaze drawn. Wide-eyed and staring, Charlie felt his mouth fall open, slack, and a gasp pass from his lips.

Dragons. Dragons everywhere.

There, the Opaleyes that he'd heard before, serpentine spines arched as two – what appeared to be a male and a female from their size discrepancy – hissed and bellowed at one another. Further away, the Longhorn he'd heard too, seeming to be roaring for nothing so much as the sake of hearing his own voice. Snout tipped in their air and curved, golden horn protruding proudly, he was glorious. And beyond that…

Over there, a Peruvian Vipertooth, rich copper scales flashing nearly bronze in the late summer light. A Phillipinno Humpback, the impressive armour at its shoulders a deep, ruddy contrast to the white horns projecting along its spine. A Welsh Green, smaller and coiled; a Peloponnesian Jackjaw, deeply purple and chattering to its fellow with flapping tongue; a Chinese Fireball, scarlet and golden-maned and coiling snakelike around a tree sturdy yet dwarfed in its grasp.

Charlie stared, and he didn't think he'd ever risk blinking again. _Why in the name of Merlin would I ever consider backing out of this?_ rose to the forefront of his mind. And then, almost blasphemously, _Not even staying at home for the family could be more important than this._

How long Charlie stared, he wasn't sure. The heat of the sun was almost hot upon the crown of his head but he barely noticed. The bite of his pack's strap chewed into his fingers for the tightness of his grasp, but he didn't care. For a long, long time, Charlie drew his gaze across the expansive reservation that extended at least as far as Hogwarts' grounds. Most of the enclosures – they must have been magically reinforced, because those flimsy fences wouldn't hold anything – extended into the surrounding forest, out of sight and hiding potentially more dragons within. That wouldn't do. Charlie had to explore it all, _see_ it all, because ignorance simply _wouldn't do_. Preferably before the day was out, as well.

His gaze was locked upon the glorious, triangular head of a Spanish Blackbeard when a crack announced the arrival of an Apparated somebody. Charlie didn't really care who it was – the Blackbeard was captivating in its regal grandeur – but he struggled to turn nonetheless. As he did, he registered the Keepers for the first time.

They'd likely always been there. Small, as small as creeping bugs, even, they wove between the enclosures with wheelbarrows trundling magically in their wakes or manually hauling crates of something or other. Workers or researchers, students or professors. Charlie hadn't even seen them for the greater importance of the dragons.

When a severe woman in khakis and shirtsleeves appeared barely a dozen steps away, however, he couldn't help but notice them.

She was a tall woman. Broad-shouldered with a closely cropped head of hair, everything about her stride and the sharp angles of her frown bespoke confidence and an absolute forbiddance of nonsense. A little like Professor McGonagall had been back at school, Charlie considered, though he wasn't entirely sure that the woman would have the underlying kindness McGonagall possessed.

She chewed through the distance between them, boots crunching almost as loud as the persisting howls from the Opaleyes. In her wake trailed a man similarly clad in khakis but with decidedly less presence. Charlie hardly saw him at all.

"You," the woman said, and any distraction Charlie might have had with the man immediately vanished. "I heard you come in."

Her voice was thickly accented, words rolling over one another and curling into each other as though clamouring to escape her mouth. Charlie couldn't identify it for a moment until he made the obvious connection; Romanian, surely.

"I'm sorry," he said instinctively, just as his smile instinctively arose. "I wasn't sure if I was supposed to –"

"You are Robert's underling, then?"

Charlie blinked. She was as severe as she appeared, though clearly the impression wasn't quite as intimidating to others. The man behind her appeared utterly undeterred by her clipped tone and interruption.

"Robert?" Charlie asked. "You mean Professor Hamstrong?"

"Yes, I mean Professor Hamstrong," the woman said, nodding curtly. Charlie was beginning to suspect she did most things with curtness. "You made it here."

"I wasn't supposed to?"

"You might have buggered off. Chickened out, as you would say it."

Charlie blinked again at the sudden curse but collected himself to respond quickly enough. "I wouldn't – I mean, I definitely want to be here, so I wouldn't –"

A roar sounded, not from the Opaleyes but the Blackbeard this time. Charlie was momentarily distracted, gaze drawn towards the impressive beast where she – it had to be a she for her size – shook her head before rising onto her haunches. Wings spread, neck arched, and she battered at the air with heavy beats of her limbs. Even from the distance of half the reservation Charlie swore he could feel the gusts.

"She's beautiful," he heard as a murmur. He only realised it was himself who'd spoken when the Blackbeard dropped back onto her haunches.

"She is," the woman said, and with another struggle Charlie drew his gaze back towards her. She was regarding the Blackbeard as severely as she'd stared at Charlie, and he felt unexpectedly heartened by that fact. Maybe it was just her usual expression?

When she turned back to him, it was with a sharp snap of her gaze. "My name is Ioana Ungaur," she said. "I am the manager of this reservation, second only to Harvey Ridgebit himself. You are Charlie Weasley, and you will be taking orders from me. Understand?"

Charlie nodded before he realised what he was doing. This woman, this "Ee-wah-nah", was second only to the founder of the reservation? He didn't need to be told to take directions from her. Charlie would do so without thought.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Just tell me where to start."

Ioana stared at him for a moment. Charlie wasn't unused to such scrutiny – many people studied him as such when they first saw him – though this time felt slightly different. He didn't feel quite like he was being compared to every stereotype of the Weasley family, every story of his siblings. It was… kind of nice.

Then Ioana nodded. Curt, still curt, she snapped her chin and her lips twitched. Was that a smile? Charlie didn't know. "Alright, Charlie," she said, her accent emphasising the 'Cha'. "Follow me."

Charlie did. He followed her every step of the way as she led him into the reservation. And if he was somewhat distracted by the dragons around him, distracted enough to miss her words at times, Ioana didn't much mind.

"You are here for the dragons," she said. "If you weren't more interested in them than you were me, then I'd be questioning you already."

Charlie smiled at that. He'd never met someone like Ioana before, and it was… kind of nice, too. No one quite so disregarding of people, for that matter. No one so intent upon dragons – like him.

It was _very_ nice. Slowly, nigglingly, wonderingly even, Charlie considered he might have just found his people. Different to his family, to the family he'd always had, but something damn special nonetheless. These people – they cared for dragons, adored them, saw them in a way that no one else Charlie had known. No one like him. The fact that Charlie had almost backed out, had almost given up on such an opportunity, even…

He would never be more grateful to Bill for his demanding nudge. Charlie might miss his family. He might regret that he'd left, that he'd made a decision that had upset his mother. He regretted too that he'd left Bill – best friend, brother, the closest person to him in the world.

But this. The thrill of beasts so ferocious and dangerous and in need of _his help_ to care for them as much as to study them for their behaviours. The people that maybe, just maybe, were like him.

Charlie couldn't say he regretted leaving. They might not be his family, these new people, but the feeling it invoked, the warmth and the delight and sheer, communal awe that was felt by all…

Strangely, it felt almost like it.


	3. There Be Dragons

_"We can't allow this."_

_"And yet we must."_

_"He's a boy –"_

_"A legal adult. In Britain, anyway."_

_"I don't care how it is in Britain, I'm telling you it can't happen here!"_

_"And why not, Ioana? Why shouldn't we let it happen?"_

_"You're going to trap the boy here forever?"_

_"That wasn't what I was suggesting."_

_"You're giving him a life sentence with your decision."_

_"That wasn't what I –"_

_"This is unbelievable. I can't believe you're considering this, Harvey."_

_"And what else would you recommend? We can't go back and erase what's happened. It's done. Maybe he's special, I don't know. Maybe, just maybe, it was going to happen from the moment he set foot among us."_

* * *

The wonders of the Romanian dragon reservation and research centre lessened none with each passing day of residence. Charlie had made the decision long ago to study dragons. He'd decided, and his mother had always said he was a stubborn person. Charlie had expected to struggle, to battle through drudgery, boredom, homesickness, and longing to work alongside dragons when he was nothing but an amateur. He'd _expected_ that.

The reality was far from expectation. How a month had passed, Charlie didn't know. A whole month, and it seemed to have disappeared in the blink of an eye. And Charlie… he hadn't known when he'd begun what his future would be. He hadn't known what a revolution would be birthed, not only in his own life but in the world of dragons entirely.

What Charlie began promised that dragon-keeping would never be the same again.

But he didn't know that. Not at first. There was barely a chance to contemplate possibilities and would-be's because there was work to be done. So much work, even, that Charlie felt on the verge of exhaustion most days.

There was the cleaning of the pens and avoiding the threat of dragons throughout. There was the reinforcing of those pens, and the subsequent further avoidance of dragons grown enraged by the invasion of their territory. The feeding, and the escaping with all limbs intact. The construction of proper enrichment without being charred alive. The wealth of written observation that needed to be taken every day, and the support of veterinarians who visited to see to avoid their becoming kebabs.

It was utterly exhausting, and as soon as Charlie's head hit the pillow of an evening it was to fall to sleep. He barely had a second to converse with his fellow keepers after hours in their designated dorm rooms.

Even so, Charlie had never been happier in his life.

That happiness came from the people. It came from the workers, keepers, and fellow students he spent so much time with. It came from Reservation Chief Ioana who set her gruelling list of duties every morning, from Professor Robert Hamstrong, Charlie's tutor of sorts, who seemed as absent as he was in assistance and barely checked in but to ask Charlie if he was surviving.

Charlie always smiled. He always nodded fervently. He was surviving very well indeed.

The keepers were one thing. The dragons were another. It didn't matter that he could be blown to pieces at every turn. It didn't matter that he never got to touch them as his hands itched to, because no one did. It didn't even matter that he spent more time shovelling dragon dung than directly interacting with the dragons themselves because the other workers were exactly the same. And it _was_ always shovelling because not only did dragon dung possess a wealth of magical properties, but those properties prevented it from being Vanquished.

Charlie didn't mind. He even loved it. Working alongside the dragons and the other keepers… they felt almost like a family, bound by mutual commitment.

Most of all, however, Charlie loved working in the Greenhouses. They were, he decided, the most interesting, non-dragon infested place in the world. And they were where his life would change forever.

As was only to be expected of a reservation containing a vast range of exotic species, certain necessary elements of the dragons' diet required supplementation. The Greenhouses provided that requisite. Filling the southern-most building of the reservation, and afforded far more light than was possible without magical intervention, they magically stretched three times the length of the actual building itself.

Every Wednesday, as Charlie had been doing since he arrived, he worked in the Greenhouses that Professor Sprout would have positively drooled over. The dew-laden air, the tinge of green that filtered through the coloured glass, the rich scent of soil and plant-life… it was a soothing and oddly enchanting escape from workaday duties, even if such placement entailed its own chores.

Chopping and grinding, pounding and mixing, uprooting weeds and translocating plants that had just been shipped in – such were the Greenhouse duties. As was always the way with magical species, rarely could they be manoeuvred with magic rather than bare hands. Charlie didn't mind. He liked getting his hands dirty.

What he liked the most about the Greenhouses, however, were the eggs. The eggs that, to his knowledge, none outside of the reservation knew the existence of. A reservation-wide secret, as it were.

They weren't real eggs, of course. Or, more correctly, they weren't alive. 'Abandoned' was what the mouthy Milo called them. "They're the ones that probably had something wrong with them so their momma queens kicked them aside."

It felt more than a little tragic to Charlie. The glorious eggs, each of them as large as a human head, were nestled like the golden treasures of an Easter hunt amidst the Greenhouse foliage.

"There is no reason," Stella Malinkovich had said when Charlie had asked her. As the resident botanist and head of the Greenhouses, she was always on hand to answer questions. "But we don't talk about it. It's a secret."

Charlie didn't know why it was a secret. He didn't ask, either. There were certain things, he'd discovered, that the reservation and its Keepers kept hidden.

Like the very presence from the Muggles, though that was only to be expected.

Like that their primary Welsh Green female was no longer reproductive and would thus be deemed 'redundant for further protection' by the more heartless of the International Dragon-Keeping Council.

Like that Chief Ioana permitted her niece to work amidst them every Sunday afternoon despite being fifteen years old and thus illegal interacting with bloodthirsty beasts. Someone underage amidst the dragons – it was positively unimaginable.

Charlie kept his mouth shut. Some things were hidden for a reason, and if Ioana's threats of inducing a 'living hell' were to be believed, he considered that reason enough. That, and the fact that he liked her. Strict as she was, he liked her; Charlie liked all of the keepers.

If the unfertilised eggs were to be kept 'a secret', then Charlie would keep it. Besides, his general quietness, his ability to hold his tongue, was what allowed him to work in the Greenhouses as much as he did. Stella apparently liked 'quiet'.

That day, however, that one fateful day that would change everything… that day demanded secretiveness more than ever before.

"Charlie, the spinach," Stella called from where she was half buried to the elbows in silver beets.

Charlie, all but drowning the giant _Gunnera manicata_ as Stella had already directed him that morning, paused to turn towards her. Though he adored working with dragons – the Horntail was marvellous, if utterly terrifying, and the Swedish Shortsnout was adorably cheeky for a beast the size of a small house – the Greenhouses were a much-needed respite. They were easy, even – except for the fact that Stella was often sparse with her directions.

"The spinach?" he called.

"The spinach. With the Spanish Blackbeard egg." And that was it.

Charlie stared at the back of Stella's greying head as she dove back into her soil churning. Then he turned in the direction of the rows of spinach lining the distant wall. It was a veritable jungle that stood between the _Gunnera manicata_ and the wall, but Charlie shrugged regardless and wove his way towards the plants.

The spinach was under-watered. That much was apparent as soon as Charlie drew alongside them. Raising his wand once more, he set about raining magical water upon the sprouts. Good for vitamin B, Stella had explained when Charlie hadn't even asked.

The sound of Stella's distant digging was disrupted only by Charlie's watering. It was calming. Easy, especially when compared to the previous day when he and three other Keepers had been forced to make a desperate run for the exit after the Antipodean Opaleye female took sudden offence to their presence.

Gaze drifting absently across the Greenhouse walls, the magically filtered sunlight radiating from glass that should have been stone for the true walls of the tower, Charlie found himself smiling. It had been fun, almost, after the terror had dimmed and magical locks been fastened. Something very close to love – for dragons, for their regal aggression and territoriality – rose within him, regardless of the danger. Besides, there had never been any real threat – or at least Charlie hadn't thought so. In hindsight, the entire situation was only expected. Why, every keeper on the reservation knew that Opaleyes could –

_Crack!_

Charlie snapped to attention. His gaze darted to the spinach bed before him. What… was that?

The sound had been sharp, unexpected in the otherwise silent Greenhouse. Charlie slowly lowered his wand. He cast a glance over his shoulder in Stella's direction, then back to the spinach bed. Frowning, he lowered himself to his haunches.

Nothing. He heard nothing, and then –

_Snap – CRACK!_

Charlie started again. He didn't spook easily, he didn't think. He couldn't afford to, not when working with dragons. But this… unexpected at a dragon keep wasn't entirely a good thing. He leaned forwards, wand grasped tightly, free hand parting the leaves of the spinach shrubs and peering through the midst.

Another snap. Another crack. And what Charlie saw stopped any thoughts in their tracks. Because there, sitting in the nest of soil like the pretty, onyx ornamentation that it was, that ornamentation no longer simply sat.

The Spanish Blackbeard egg. The infertile egg was…

It was…

"Stella!"

* * *

_"We shouldn't have put him in there. We shouldn't be putting any of the new recruits in the Greenhouses."_

_"How were we to know, Harvey? This sort of thing has never happened before."_

_"Even so, allowing amateurs around unhatched eggs –"_

_"Unhatched for a reason! They should be infertile!"_

_"We never confirmed the eggs were infertile, Ioana. Only that they've been discarded. I know I wasn't alone in hoping it was otherwise but we… seem to have made a mistake."_

_"We have indeed."_

_"But what do we do?"_

_"What_ can _we do?"_

_"We can't let this out, Ioana. Not to the greater world."_

_"Of course not. There would be outcry. The fact that abandoned eggs aren't destroyed at all is… We have to keep this quiet. Despite the utter impossibility –"_

_"Not quite so impossible, Ioana."_

_"- that is a_ dragon _hatching for a human –"_

_"It still seems inconceivable."_

_"- we say nothing. And just… hope?"_

_"Yes. We hope. For the best."_

_"The best. Who the bloody hell knows what_ that's _going to be."_

* * *

She was the wrong colour. Not black but a dark blood-red.

She was the wrong shape, too. Not as bulky as she should be. Not as broad across the chest. More serpentine and fluid than she was supposed to.

Too small, with mismatched eyes, and a strange squawking chirrup of a voice that had apparently been heard by none of the keepers. Her tail was too long, would likely disrupt her flying, and two of her feet had an extra toe.

So much was wrong with the little dragon born from an 'infertile' egg, but Charlie thought she was perfect.

Barely a day it had been. Barely a day of sitting inside the Greenhouse and barely able to move for the baby dragon that sat in his lap. The sound of Stella's digging had ceased and his own watering hadn't restarted, but the expanse of green-shrouded building was far from silent.

"What does this mean?"

"She _hatched_?"

"How?"

"Why? Why _now_?"

"Does this mean that all of them will?"

"She's a Spanish Blackbeard? She doesn't look like one – is there something wrong with her?"

And most importantly of all: "What do we do?"

Charlie sat in their midst, a quiet seat to his squawking companion. He couldn't help but stare at her – such bright eyes, with the fine scales across every inch of her nothing short of magical – and his fingers didn't cease in their stroking: of her head as she tipped it for him to reach, of her spine as she coiled in his lap and pressed herself into his hand, of her tail as she looped it around his wrist.

She _was_ perfect. A tiny, red and black beast of perfection, even if she had come from a discarded egg that should have been empty. Why? How? _How had it happened?_

When Charlie could tear his gaze away from the little creature – his; was she his? – it was to draw his attention between the nattering company. He saw the confusion, the sidelong glances, the frowns and shaking of heads. He saw when Ioana, tall and stoic, strode into the room, and the moment of wonder that was almost triumph spread across her face as she saw the dragon. He saw too when Harvey Ridgebit – _the_ Harvey Ridgebit, founder of the reservation and still regal in his aged countenance – appeared as though Apparated barely moments after her.

"What did you do, Charlie?" someone asked.

Charlie didn't know.

"Why did she hatch for you?" said someone else.

Charlie didn't know that either.

"Just what in the hell kind of magic could _possibly_ get that egg to hatch?"

Charlie had no answers, but the hand that rested atop the dragon in his lap curled slightly. She, coiled upon herself like a sleeping fox and apparently oblivious to the excitement she'd caused, only blinked an eyelid open to peer up at him. She purred a moment later. Charlie didn't know how, didn't recognise those exact sounds, but somehow he _felt_ the satisfaction that poured from her with the simply hum.

"Mr Weasley, what can you tell us?"

With a Herculean effort, for Charlie thought he could stare at the dragonet a forever, he dragged his gaze upwards. Ridgebit and Ioana drew towards him, the rest of the workers clustered at their backs shunted aside.

Charlie glanced between them. "I don't know."

Ridgebit, his lined face tightening, frowned with less aggression and more open thoughtfulness. "You don't know?"

"I don't know what happened. If it was maybe my magic or… something."

"Were you thinking anything at the time?"

Charlie blinked. He glanced towards Ioana with her question, and she regarded him silently in return. "Thinking anything?"

"To induce the hatching," she expanded, her tone as clipped and curt as ever. "We have hypothesised that such might encourage –"

"Ioana," Ridgebit interrupted sharply.

Silence fell. Not just between the two but from every watching keeper as well. Charlie stared as the others stared, watching as Ridgebit and Ioana exchanged a glance.

It was a long glance, weighted with meaning and nary a blink. Charlie's eyes darted between them, and he almost flinched with the speed at which Ioana abruptly ceased their silent conversation. Turning on her heel with a nod, she started back towards the doors she'd entered by. "I'll make sure everyone is kept under wraps," was all she said before disappearing with a stride so long it was nearly a run.

Ridgebit nodded in reply despite Ioana's disappearance. Then he turned back to Charlie. His gaze fell for a moment to the dragonet before rising to meet Charlie's own. "Mr Weasley," he said slowly. "We must talk."

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, I gathered that."

"This," Ridgebit gestured, "needs to remain a secret."

"A secret from who?"

"From everybody. Such anomalies, and from such a dangerous beast…"

Ridgebit didn't need to explain further. Charlie didn't know what would happen, but if it meant protecting the baby dragon, who clung to his legs like a child would to their mother, he would do it. No question. He would keep it hidden. He would keep her safe.

"I understand, sir," Charlie said, and he saw in Ridgebit's eyes that he knew he meant it.

_"We're asking for a commitment. It's a lot, I know, and especially as you're only so young, but –"_

_"I'll do it."_

_"Mr Weasley –"_

_"Please, just Charlie._

_"Charlie, then. You have to understand. Female dragons – they remain alongside their mother's for life. Now, we won't know if 'motherhood' is truly how the dragonet sees you until further study, but in all likelihood –"_

_"It's fine. I'm not going to leave. Not ever."_

_"Charlie…"_

_"I swear, I won't. We have to keep it hidden, right? We have to keep this a secret, that this can happen. Right?"_

_"We do."_

_"Then that's fine. I mean, if I could maybe take the occasional visit back to England –"_

_"They should be fine, I believe."_

_"But even if it wasn't, I'd stay. She's mine, right?"_

_"Yours?"_

_"And I'm hers."_

_"Charlie…"_

_"It's fine, Mr Ridgebit. It's more than fine. I wouldn't want it any other way."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Should I continue? I'm not sure. I've never written chapter to chapter before, so this is something of a new experience. Let me know if you'd like to hear more with a comment and - if you'd like - what you'd be interested in seeing!   
> For now, though, I think this story is done. Thanks for reading :)


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